


In Rain Or Shine

by RileyC



Category: DCU, World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Making Out, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heart-to-heart over coffee leads to making out. Doesn't it always?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Rain Or Shine

“Isn’t it almost Easter?”

Clark Kent glanced at the calendar hanging over in the kitchen, shrugged. “I suppose. Why?”

Bruce Wayne aimed a pointed look at the potted Christmas tree occupying an end table in the living room.

“So?” Adjusting his glasses, Clark moved protectively in front of the harmless little tree. “I can’t throw it out; it’s alive.”

“It’s still decorated.”

“Just lights,” Clark protested.

“Clark, it’s got tinsel, and a star.”

Arms folded over his chest, Clark stood his ground. “It’s pretty.”

One corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched in what could have been a smile.

“Anyway,” Clark kept a wary eye on him, “it’s not like I’ve had a lot of time to tidy up – or my own butler to pick up after me.”

Bruce gave him a look, oddly guarded in the circumstances. “You can’t borrow Alfred.”

“I hadn’t planned to.”

“Hmm.” Only Bruce could invest a grunt with a multitude of potential meaning – none of which Clark could quite pin down at the moment.

Done with the tree, Bruce moved onto a silent inspection of the contents of the bookshelves, leaving Clark to resume wondering what had brought his friend here in the first place. He’d known Bruce was in town on Wayne Enterprises business, so a meeting wasn’t unexpected. It was just … startling, to arrive home and find Bruce – not Batman, lurking in the shadows – waiting for him, sitting on his sofa and appearing almost at home.

Not unpleasant, though. Not at all.

Because the silence was starting to drag on and verge upon awkward, Clark said, “So is that why you dropped by, Bruce, to take me to task about still having up Christmas decorations?”

“I wasn’t reprimanding, Clark, merely observing. And,” Bruce’s shoulders lifted in the most minute of diffident shrugs, as though momentarily unsure of himself, “can’t I just drop by for a cup of coffee?”

Now it was Clark’s turn to feel self-conscious, given this was a scenario he had imagined more than a few times. “You _can,_ ” he said, pushing at his glasses again. “You never have.” Head tilted slightly, Clark studied the other man, quite suddenly certain there was more going on than an impulsive craving for coffee. Something that had left Bruce distressed and unable to settle, now Clark knew what to look for. “What’s happened?”

Bruce wavered another moment; Clark could see him toying with denial, with making a swift retreat. He thought there was some scrap of relief swirling around in there, too, and knew he’d asked the right question. So he waited and watched and tried not to anticipate as Bruce finally sat back down on the couch. Whatever Clark might have expected Bruce to say, the actual words came as a shock.

“It’s Alfred,” Bruce said – simply, quietly, eyes haunted with old ghosts.

Feeling a sudden cold pit open up in his own stomach, Clark sat beside him. “Is he…?” No, impossible to speak it.

Bruce shook his head. “He’s all right. He’s going to be all right,” he repeated, insistent, almost to himself, and for a moment Clark imagined he heard an echo of a small boy’s forlorn voice. “He had a dizzy spell, some shortness of breath,” Bruce continued after a moment. “Leslie gave him a clean bill of health. Said he’d just been overdoing things. So busy looking after me he wasn’t taking care of himself. It’s just…” He let out a small sigh, shaking his head, looking away. “He’s always been there; I can’t imagine him not being there. And all I do is take that for granted,” he finished, looking at Clark again.

Clark nodded, understanding how he felt all too well. It was difficult to not reach over, offer some comfort with a touch. With Bruce actually opening up and talking, though, the last thing Clark wanted do right now was spook him off in any way. Words would have to do. “First of all, you don’t take Alfred for granted—“

A stubborn set to his mouth and chin, Bruce said, “I’m hardly anyone’s idea of effusive, Clark.”

Clark nodded again, slowly. “That’s true – and if you want to give Alfred a real shock, by all means go all warm and fuzzy on him.” He hurried on, suppressing a smile as dark blue eyes began a low level glower. “Look, if there is anyone in this world who knows what makes you tick, Bruce, who can pick up on everything you don’t say out loud, you know that’s Alfred. He knows what he means to you.”

Bruce didn’t appear to be entirely swayed by that argument. “ _You’re_ advising me _not_ to express my emotions?” Eyes narrowed, he asked, “Who are you and what have you done with Clark Kent?”

Smiling, Clark took the risk of reaching over to touch Bruce’s arm now. Bruce didn’t pull away from the slight touch, only stared at Clark’s hand resting there, as if presented with some mystery to puzzle out.

Clark’s spirit wanted to soar a bit at that, but he firmly clamped down on it, saying, “If you want to make some grand gesture, insist Alfred take two weeks’ vacation and send him to the most luxurious resort you know.”

Bruce grunted. “Don’t think I’m not trying. Getting him to cooperate isn’t going to be easy.”

“He sounds like Ma,” Clark said, smile turning wistful, fading. He sat back, his hand falling away from Bruce’s arm. “She spent Christmas in the hospital with pneumonia,” he went on after a moment as Bruce turned an inquisitive look on him. “She’s okay now, but,” he sighed, shrugged, “it was kind of touch-and-go for a few days. The whole time, though, she was more worried about me than herself.”

It was his turn to gaze at Bruce’s hand, gently, briefly, brushing against his wrist. The touch was so delicate, so fleeting, Clark might have imagined it.

He knew he hadn’t.

Bruce made a grumbling sound and scooted back more comfortably on the couch. “Anyone would think we weren’t grown men well able to look after ourselves.”

“Heroes, even.”

Bruce gave him a sharp look, but his lips were twitching with the hint of a smile. He looked over at the plucky little tree again, giving it a fresh assessment as if piecing clues together. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Clark shook his head, also looking over at the tree. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.” There had barely been anything _he_ could do -- except nurture that little tree.

“I could have kept you company while you waited.”

Clark hoped his expression wasn’t as dubious as it felt. Judging by Bruce’s frown, however, the hope was a vain one. “I couldn’t pull you away from Gotham just to come hold my hand.”

“Arrangements could have been made.”

Slanting him a sideways look, Clark said, “Are you,” he hesitated an instant, searching for the right word, “ _huffy_ because I didn’t send for you?”

Making another grumbling sound, Bruce said, “I don’t get huffy.”

“I don’t know, Bruce, you sound pretty huffy right now.”

“Clark—“ In mid-glower, Bruce’s expression shifted, comprehension dawning in his eyes. He nodded after another moment, murmuring, “Thank you.”

Nodding back, Clark settled back in his corner of the couch, glad he’d been able to lighten his friend’s mood just a bit. The quiet that settled between them now wasn’t awkward, wasn’t strained. It was … comfortable. As if they did this all the time: unwinding after a long day, breathing easy because here, finally, they could let down their defenses and put away all the masks.

It was good. More than good. Clark just wished it didn’t take a crisis for it to happen.

“Did you, um, want that cup of coffee?” he asked, not knowing how else to make this last, keep Bruce here a little longer.

Bruce looked at him, thoughtful, curious, and nodded. “I would, yes.”

Trying not to beam _too_ brightly, Clark said, “Okay! Be right back!”

Smiling slightly, Bruce shook his head and refrained from pointing out that he could watch Clark perfectly well as he rummaged through the apartment’s small kitchen for coffee and cups.

As Clark got the coffee going, he glanced back over his shoulder, experiencing a funny little flip in his stomach as he saw Bruce get up to plug in the string of tiny, colored lights wound around the tree. After another moment, Bruce turned down the living room lights, the better to let the little tree shine.

“You might as well enjoy it,” Bruce said, offhand.

Clark didn’t buy the studied air of detachment for a second.

Bringing over the coffee, Clark smiled and handed Bruce his cup. He wanted to prolong the delicious, shivery sensation that jolted through him as their fingers brushed for an infinitesimal instant. He wanted to know if Bruce felt that same reaction traveling through his body. There was nothing in the other man’s composed manner to provide any kind of signal.

Nor was Clark entirely sure how to interpret the expression that flitted across Bruce’s face as his friend shifted around on the sofa and then, setting his steaming cup on the coffee table, began groping between the cushions.

“Bruce…?”

Coming up with his prize, Bruce held it up for Clark to see. “What is this?”

Peering closely, shaking his head, Clark said, “I’m not sure.”

It looked like a bunch of withered stems, leaves, and some desiccated things that might have been fruit or berries, once upon a time.

Oh.

Bruce quirked an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“I … think it might be mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe?”

Clark shrugged, resisted the urge to scuff a toe against the carpet. “Yeah, you know,” he shrugged again, “mistletoe, for Christmas.” Involuntarily, he looked up at the spot where he’d hung it up, months ago now, right over the couch.

Bruce followed his gaze, zeroing in on the tiny hook still stuck up on the ceiling. “Interesting placement,” he murmured, sitting back with his coffee and taking a sip. “One might almost suppose a particular scenario had been envisioned.”

 _I will not blush, I will not blush, I … Rats._ Hoping the dimmed lighting would hide the burn he felt suffusing his cheeks, Clark sat back at the other end of the couch, cradling his coffee cup. “It’s traditional.”

“It’s _traditional_ to hang it over a door, an entryway, providing complete strangers a socially sanctioned excuse to flirt with adultery.”

Clark stared at him over the rim of the coffee cup. “I don’t think that’s how most people think of it, Bruce.”

“Hmm. I’m sure they don’t.”

Clark watched Bruce sip his coffee and wished he could decipher the complicated thought process going on behind those watchful blue eyes.

“Placing the mistletoe right there, over the couch,” Bruce flicked a glance at the ceiling before training those relentless eyes on Clark once more, “the only possible conclusion is that a seduction was anticipated.”

Clark almost choked on his coffee. “Wha – why – It wasn’t,” he said, making his voice firm. Not really, not a _seduction_. He wouldn’t have known where to start.

“So?” Bruce ignored his denial. “Did everything go according to plan?”

Feeling defensive, Clark said, “Has it occurred to you it might not actually be any of your business?”

Head cocked, as though actually pondering that question, Bruce said, “Not really,” he said with blithe disregard for Clark’s comfort zones.

“I don’t know what I had in mind,” Clark said, and that was almost the truth. It had been a whim, a barely formed hope, nudged into being after talking to Alfred and learning Bruce was going to be in Metropolis for a couple of days during the holidays. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, since I wasn’t able to be here.”

Bruce nodded, took another sip of coffee. “I had wondered where you were,” he said, almost to himself.

Clark’s gaze sharpened. “You came over?”

It was Bruce’s turn to appear discomfited; not quite awkward, but certainly finding his customary élan momentarily elusive. “I was in town. I thought we might … exchange season’s greetings.”

Clark’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. In all the time he’d known Bruce, he could recollect no instance of the other man being inclined to exchange season’s greetings with him, or anyone. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“You had the best reason not to be.” Sang-froid recovered, Bruce gave Clark a patented enigmatic look. “Shame the mistletoe gave it’s all in vain.”

Clark blinked. “I doubt anything would have come of it in any case.”

Bruce set his cup over on the coffee table. “What did you envision might come of it?”

Clark blinked again. Had Bruce scooted over a little closer. “Umm,” he poked at his glasses as they slid down his nose, “I don’t… Nothing. Really.” Because he needed to do something, he placed his cup beside Bruce’s. As distractions went, it didn’t hold a candle to Bruce edging closer and closer, turned to face him, one arm resting along the sofa’s back. If Clark copied that move, their hands could touch, could tangle together… He swallowed and kept both hands folded in his lap.

“You must have had something in mind, Clark,” Bruce said, determined to persist with this for whatever obscure reason. Voice dropped to a lower register, a rumble that sent a shiver up Clark’s spine, he speculated, “The lights turned down low, like this, soft music playing—“

His own voice less steady than he would have liked, the picture Bruce was painting taking all-too vivid shape in his mind, Clark felt compelled to point out, “There’s no music playing.”

A secretive smile curved Bruce’s lips. “But there would have been. It’s important to the staging,” he said.

“I guess you’d know.” Clark muttered the words half to himself. He wanted to flee. He wanted to pounce. He sat there, frozen in place, as Bruce inched inexorably closer, not missing a beat. “So,” Clark licked his lips, “the lights are low, there’s music playing…?”

Bruce swallowed, seemingly fixated on Clark wetting his lips, losing his place for an instant. “Yes, mm, the lights are low, music – one of you looks up, sees the mistletoe, right there over your heads.” He tilted his head upwards; Clark followed his gaze, even knowing there was nothing to see now.

“And then…?” Because that was about as far as Clark had gotten, his imagination failing him on the next step. “Bruce?”

“And then?” Bruce repeated, staring at him as if he had forgotten his lines.

“What do we – this other person and me – what do we do then?”

“You, mm, you look at each other, and maybe try to laugh about it, but suddenly it’s too big, too serious, and all you can do, the only possible action is … to kiss,” Bruce whispered, right _there,_ so close Clark could feel his breath, a whisper of a caress against his cheek.

So close it would hardly take any effort at all for one of them to move that miniscule fraction more required for their lips to collide. Hardly any effort at all to close that distance, for their lips to touch, to brush – both of them pulling back for a startled instant, hearts beating hard as they stared at each other,

Was Bruce as knocked for a loop as him? Clark desperately wanted to know; needed to know Bruce was on the same page. He didn’t think he could do this otherwise. He didn’t think he could bear it if Bruce was just goofing around.

“Bru—“

Two fingers were laid over his lips, quieting him. Clark closed his eyes, savoring that touch as they stroked, slowly, back and forth along his bottom lip. Opening his eyes, gaze locking on Bruce’s, he watched the storm raging in those dark blue depths and could have sworn he saw the exact moment everything changed.

Astonishing both of them, Clark darted his tongue out, flicking against those teasing fingers.

“Clark…?” Caught midway between arousal and shock, Bruce tipped the scales and slid his hand up, cupping Clark’s cheek, thumb stroking along a fine cheekbone. “This is,” Bruce swallowed, “this is a bad idea.”

“Umm hmm, terrible, worst idea ever,” Clark said, turning his face into that hand, pressing a kiss to the palm, feeling a tremor run through Bruce, feeling his pulse racing.

He caught that hand, pressed it to his face again, twined their fingers together, put his lips to the delicate, vulnerable network of veins to feel Bruce’s pulse thrumming against his lips, so powerful he could almost taste it. He was being clumsy, he knew that. He didn’t care. Not after wanting this, waiting for it so long.

“So,” his breathing had never been so erratic, “so the lights are low and music’s playing, and we’ve just kissed – then what?”

Giving him a thoughtful look, Bruce reached over to remove Clark’s glasses. “These have to go,” he said, a low and sexy rumble in his voice. He set them over on the coffee table, Clark following every move. “And this,” Bruce reached for Clark’s necktie, undoing it, dragging it off, meaning to add it to the table but his fingers – always so sure, so steady – were trembling and he dropped it.

Clark didn’t mind. Still having trouble with his breathing, he asked, “Is this really going to happen, Bruce?”

Opening Clark’s shirt, undoing each button with maddening precision, Bruce looked at him. “Is there a disaster or something in progress right now?”

Clark frowned for a moment, not following the non sequitur. Then his face cleared and he cocked his head, listening. “Everything’s quiet.”

Bruce nodded, having gotten Clark’s shirt open halfway down his chest. “Then yes,” he murmured, “this is going to happen.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not wearing your costume.”

“Do you,” Clark groaned, falling back against the arm of the couch as Bruce leaned in to nuzzle along his throat, “do you want me to?” he said, burying a hand in Bruce’s thick, dark hair to keep him there – right there, kissing and sucking all along his throat.

“No.” A warm, wet flick of Bruce’s tongue just under Clark’s ear – then another, and one more, when that made Clark shudder and squirm and whimper. “This is good,” he rumbled, an elegant hand sliding against bare skin, underneath cloth, curving over a swell of pectoral muscle and teasing a nipple that swelled and hardened, begging for more attention.

“Are you going to stay fully dressed?” Clark tugged at the expensive, perfectly fitted suit coat, impatient to feel Bruce against him with not even clothing in the way.

“Are you going to talk the entire time?”

“Probab—ummm.”

Of course Bruce would know exactly how to silence him, Clark thought as Bruce kissed him, really kissed him. Both hands cradling his head, Bruce caught Clark’s bottom lip with both of his, sucking, nibbling, darting his tongue along it as Clark’s mouth opened to him, welcoming the warm, wet glide of Bruce’s tongue against his. Agile, that tongue flicked the roof of his mouth, and Clark moaned around the sensation, every nerve igniting, burning even hotter at the sexy, satisfied sounds _Bruce_ was making.

Clark never wanted it to end, protesting as Bruce drew back, reaching out to pull him back. Bruce smiled, shook his head, whispered against his ear, “We’re just getting started,” catching the lobe between sharp teeth for a moment. Bruce kissed each eyelid, a cheekbone, one corner of Clark’s mouth, then the other, each touch of lips painstakingly tender as though Bruce was paying loving homage to him. Just the thought of that, the _feel_ of it, was enough to stop his breath for a moment – gasping in the next moment as Bruce worked a hand between their bodies, tugging at Clark’s belt.

Unable to decide if things were going too fast, or too slow, Clark shifted on the couch, raising a leg to wrap around Bruce – only to smash his foot into the coffee table, overturning the whole thing in a crash of broken coffee cups and splintered wood.

“Dammit.”

Bruce buried his face in Clark’s hair, smothering something that sounded suspiciously like laughter. “Smooth move, Kent,” he said, drawing back, the rare laughter still in his voice, his eyes.

“Oh bite me,” Clark grumbled. He sighed, climbing to his feet, seeing the evening slipping away as he glared down at the mess.

Standing in front of him, Bruce tilted his chin up, kissed his mouth again, long and slow and deep, leaving them both breathless. “That can be on the agenda, yes, if that’s what you’re into.”

Eyes wide, Clark knew he was gaping. “I thought… We’re still doing this?” He would have sworn his klutziness was a surefire mood killer. It always had been in the past.

“Clark,” Bruce punctuated his words with kisses to Clark’s face, “we are going to clean up the mess,” his chin, “and then I am taking you to bed,” his mouth, lingering, “where we’re going to make love until neither of can move.” He finished with their foreheads together, holding Clark, sighing with deep satisfaction as Clark’s arms came around him.

“That … could take awhile.”

“Then we better get started.”

“Bruce…” Clark hesitated, stepping back just a little, not wanting to risk ruining the mood, but he needed to know. “Is this about more than a brush with mortality?”

Sober again, Bruce touched his face. “It’s because of mortality, Clark. Because regret hurts just as much as loss,” he said, rubbing a thumb along Clark’s cheekbone, eyes troubled but clearing as Clark moved closer, raising his arms and slipping them around Bruce’s neck. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to figure that out,” he added, dropping his hands to Clark’s hips.

Clark stretched against him, nuzzling his temple. “That’s okay. Even the World’s Greatest Detective has an off day now and then.”

Bruce made a face. “More like an off decade.”

Clark kissed the frown away. “I wasn’t keeping track.” He glanced down at the mess on the floor. “Do we have to clean everything up first?”

“It’s your apartment, Clark, but,” Bruce gave him a look, half-serious, half-teasing, “what would Alfred and your mother say?”

Clark sighed. “Okay. We’ve waited this long, another five minutes won’t kill us. Although with our luck,” he went on, kneeling to start gathering shards of crockery, “right about now there’ll be an earthquake in Mexico or a mass breakout at Arkham-- Hey!”

He abruptly found himself hauled upright and nudged along toward the bedroom, Bruce saying, “You’re right – let’s leave this until morning.”

Clark grinned, not about to put up an argument.


End file.
